Excerpt:

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I stared into the flames of the fire and listened as the wind howled and the thunder roared outside. Lightning cracked and the rain poured down on the rooftop. It had been months since Lee had surrendered to Grant and months since the death of President Lincoln. The state's Government was now restored. We had new senators and a new governor, and little by little order was returning. The men who had fought in the war and lived had returned home, most of them missing an arm or a leg. They sought pardon, re-pledged their loyalty to the union between the states, and began to rebuild their lives.

I wondered quite selfishly and not for the first time how I was going to go on, how Blackmoore was going to go on. I was filled with apprehension and riddled with regret. I prayed for the rain to wash away the past few years, to give me a second chance. The scars of war were evident everywhere I looked. Neither my mother nor my father had survived the war. Neither my brother nor my husband would be coming home. Nor it seemed, for that matter, would be the man that I'd loved, the man that I'd loved but lost. I looked once more at the letter in my trembling hands. Tears fell upon the well-worn parchment as I read the words one last time and then laid it onto the fire and watched it burn.

I know I have no right to burden you, my brother's wife. I most assuredly will hate myself by tomorrow when this is on its way. I don't know that I will survive this war. I have seen so many die. We have been marching for days in mud, our rations are minimal, my shoes worn. Some of the men are marching barefoot, so I shouldn't complain.

My bitterness at your father's refusal of my proposal to have your hand in marriage has diminished with time. Although my feelings for you remain, and always will, I understand that he did what he thought best for you and for your family. It feels as if I have aged a decade during this war. If I live through this, I promise you that somehow I will find contentment with things as they are. I will make peace, as you once asked me to, with James. I will return to Blackmoore. But there will be no more talk of me taking a wife. James may have you in his bed, but I will always hold you in my heart. There is room for no one else there, and there never will be.

Devotedly,

Wyatt

"Will you be needin' anythin' more tonight, Miss Laurel?"

I looked up. Cellie was standing in my doorway, her brow marred with concern for me. She had taken care of me since the day I was born, and when I moved to Blackmoore on my wedding day she came with me. She was one of only a handful who had stayed on. The slaves that had worked the land had no loyalty to me. And I didn't blame them for leaving. The truth was, I wanted to leave. But I had no place to go. Magnolia, the only other home I'd known, had been burnt to the ground - my father in it. Devastated by the death of my mother earlier in the year and proud beyond reason, he saw to its destruction before the Yankees could cross its threshold.

The thunder rolled loudly and Cellie looked up, then tilted her head to the side.

"What is it?" I asked her. Then I heard it, too, a soft, steady pounding at the door. I climbed quickly to my feet and retrieved my pistol from underneath my pillow. I had taken to sleeping with it the day that James left, and sadly it brought me far more comfort than he ever had.

I dashed down the hall then the stairs, Cellie at my heels.

"Miss Laurel, you're in your night."

"Shh!" I said. I closed my eyes and moistened my lips. My heart was pounding in anticipation, the gun shaking in my nervous hands. Then, without warning, a flame of hope flickered from somewhere deep inside of me. I stepped back, pointed the gun at the door, and steadily said, "Open it."

Cellie looked at me, then at the door. I nodded encouragement and watched in rapt attention as she reached out for the knob, turned it, and slowly pulled the door open.

The man that had been leaning against it crumpled to his knees. His clothes were ragged and soaked through. He was covered in grime and thinner than I remembered.

"Wyatt!" I gasped, dropping the weapon and running to him.